Somewhere in Between They Started to Grey

The vendors were lined sporadically in a repurposed warehouse. Each
one had its own niche: vegan cuisine, small batch olive oil, artisan baked
goods. The whole place smelled like stale lavender.

I was walking between rows of arugulas and kales, wasting time until I
could reasonably ask for another sample of the new double Mudhook
was handing out.

Each time I got one, I would sniff, waft, pretend I was looking for some
hint of something. I’d stand there and listen to the latest brew master
tell me how he achieved his IBUs. I’d nod and sniff again before sipping
it. I’d tell him that he had really brought out the hops in this batch. He’d
let me try some other varieties. They all tasted like soap.

I was about to turn the corner when I saw her. She stood by the vendor
that sold artisan baked goods, licking the icing out of an oversized sand-
wich cookie. We used to go to this festival every month.

It became different variations of the same day: we’d circle the ware-
house; I’d order a steak burrito, her something drizzled in raspberry
vinaigrette; we’d circle the warehouse; look at the latest gallery instal-
lation; circle the warehouse; pass on the beer samples. We’d circle the
warehouse and exit through the door next to the artisan cookie stand.

“Should we get one?” she’d ask.

“They look so good,” I’d say. “Do you want one?”

“Do you want one?” she’d ask.

“I mean, I’ll eat some if you want one,” I’d say.

“Well you don’t have to get one,” she’d say. “Don’t get one just because
you think I want one.”

“Yeah I know I don’t have to get one,” I’d say. “I mean, I do want
one, but I’m not really hungry.”

She’d look past me.

“We’ll just get one next time,” I’d say.

When I saw her standing there, I reached for my phone. It was dead.
I swiped the screen. I kept walking, staring at the dead screen. I
couldn’t see my reflection clearly — my nose and eyebrows melted
together.

I glanced up at the vendor. She was gone and all my first lines floated
away. I put my phone away, slapped around for my wallet, and got
in line for an artisan cookie. I slid my thumb into the front pocket of
my wallet. Even wrinkled and bent, the polaroid film was soothing.

We were on her apartment floor eating green curry. That Amy
Winehouse documentary was streaming on her MacBook.

Sometimes I walk out by myself, and I look across the water.

I was covered in sweat, rubbing patterns off my elbow. There was a
brush burn forming.

And I think of all the things, what you’re doing and in my head I paint a
picture.

She led her foot through her pant leg, winced when she reached her
knee. It was bleeding. She said she didn’t notice until now, didn’t
hurt until now. I rolled over to get my shirt when I noticed. I pointed
to the carpet; there was a bloodstain. She went to her fridge for
baking soda.

“Should I put water down first?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

She put the baking soda down and it clumped the color of rust. It
left a stain. We took a picture with her polaroid camera.

I hadn’t noticed the line move. The cashier looked annoyed. I mut-
tered and left. I walked away from the vendors, down an alley, fished
for a cigarette. I didn’t leave any time between drags. Groups passed
by. Some carried on, some glanced, and some coughed as they passed.
When I finished, I didn’t flick my cigarette; I threw it away. I hoped
a cougher saw me do this.

It was dark and the vendors were closing. I decided to leave, but
changed my mind after passing a corner shop. It was two stories. The
bottom floor sold rocks and homemade soaps. I bought one of
the rocks once, red like crystalized lava. The label claimed that it
worked to organize thoughts and put them to use. Said it was charged
to do this. I carried it around for a few days before losing it in the wash.

The top floor housed a psychic. This psychic read the made readings
exclusively through Angel cards.

“I get a reading every month,” she said, bouncing my hand on her
knee.

“Every month?”

“I know it sounds crazy or whatever,” she said. “But I swear she’s on
point.”

I was too focused on my hand on her knee to see the belief swirling
in her eyes.

“I bet.”

“You think its bullshit, don’t you?” she asked.

Her leg stopped bouncing. I cleared my throat.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “I mean there’s definitely something strange
with the whole Tarot card, Ouija board thing. But I don’t know.”

“They’re Angel cards.”

“What?”

“She performs Angel card readings,” she said. “She only draws from
the positive energy she picks up on.”

“I mean, yeah — I just don’t think fortunes can change that much in
a month”

I walked to the second floor. The walls were a welcoming green color
and the overheads were too bright to cast any shadows. It was all
too inviting to foster any mysticism.

The psychic only charged ten dollars for a look into the future. It
seemed like a fair price. Her door was closed; she was with another
client. I sat down and felt my palms sweat. No matter how many
times I rubbed my pants, they wouldn’t stop, and I couldn’t under-
stand why. The Angel cards didn’t reveal misfortunes. I knew that.

I also knew that Demon cards didn’t exist. A psychic would have a
hard time selling Demon card readings.

The door opened and I made eye contact with her client.

Christmas was a week away and we were parked across from her
apartment. We had just seen Star Wars. It was my choice. She said
she didn’t care that she never saw the others. It was the first time we
were alone together. She had just told me that she had never done
things like this sober. She said it was easier before when she wasn’t.

“I’m scared,” she said, lighting another cigarette.

“Of what?”

“I’m terrified of hurting people,” she said. “It’s all I used to do.”

I kept rubbing my palms on my pants while we talked.

“I don’t know why — maybe I get scared when I think something’s
real,” she said. “I run. It’s so much easier to be by myself.”

The windows were beginning to fog over. I cracked her window to
let the smoke clear.

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” she said. Her eyes held frantic typhoons.
A certainty, a conviction. I couldn’t look away.

I said I understood and I thought I did.

“Well, you shouldn’t be scared.”

“Oh hey.”

She wasn’t wearing her glasses. I treaded water.

“Hey.” I hadn’t heard her voice in months.

It’s so good to see you.” she said.

Foreign. A static buzzing in my ears. If it was a recording, I wouldn’t
have recognized it. I asked her if she was getting her fortune read.
She asked how I’d been. I found it hard to think of anything to say.

Her smile faded and her tone lowered. She grabbed my arm and led
me to the corner of the lobby.

“You’re acting shy. It’s me,” she said. “You can talk to me.”

We held eye contact until they started to grey.

“I just want to shake you until you get that.”

“I didn’t think I was being shy.” I said.

“I don’t know, maybe shy’s the wrong word,” she said. “You just
seem sad, like somethings wrong, you know?”

“I’m not sad.”

I looked away. The psychic was watching from her doorway. There
was something about the way she was biting her lip, like her visions
were confirming themselves in the corner. She shut the door.

“I hate when you do that. You would always do that,” she said. “You
would act all quiet like somethings wrong but never tell me.”

I had spent months thinking of all the things I would say, but I just
stood there wondering why her voice had changed.

“I could always tell, but I never knew what I did,” she said. “It made
me feel stupid.”

I thought about artisan cookies and rusty baking soda. I thought about
her taking her shoes off at the movies, curling up on the theater chairs.
I thought about telling her not to be scared. There was a hole burning
through my back pocket. I wondered if the stain was still on her carpet.

“Honestly, I’m just coming down.”